


Darkness and Release

by littleweedwrites



Series: An Edinburgh Holiday [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blowjobs, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Men Crying, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-28 10:25:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13269483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleweedwrites/pseuds/littleweedwrites
Summary: John and James are intimate for the first time since the sad passing of Sherlock Watson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Krullenbol2602](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krullenbol2602/gifts).



> Sorry this is so sad... there may be a second chapter. I haven’t written it yet. But it stands well on its own without.
> 
> Again this fic is inspired by the wonderful RP I was so lucky to be part of with the author who I have gifted this work to. Check her out. She is amazing.

John and James, at last alone in their holiday bedroom, both strip, the tension between them palpable, everpresent in the air.

  
Naked together for the first time in over a month; partly the fault of their daughter bed crashing regularly and partly due to the wearing of soft pyjamas as a symptom of grief. The striped brushed cotton fabric cushioning them against the reality of their bed at home missing a partner, a companion, a lover.

James watches as a left hand is clenched into a fist, shaken out as if its owner is readying for a race. John’s breathing is in sighs, licking his lips in anticipation at the sight of James’s heavy cock, but with saltwater welling in the corner of his eyes. James can see his beloved wants this, that he needs this, but his resolve is delicate, hanging on the merest hint of a spider’s thread, straw to break the back of a Bactrian, the edge of some Sheffield steelware.  
James dares to speak into the sacred silence.

  
“John.” And moves forward onto the bed, to kneel upon the covers, hoping that he doesn’t startle his counterpart, praying they continue their duet.  
John settles too, sitting down on the edge of the bed, hard, slightly too hard, over-determined. Another heavy sigh, this one shaking on the outward breath.

  
“John–“ James offers again, softer.

  
“I’m fine. Just– I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to….” James starts to wonder if he’s pushed too hard, if John isn’t ready, if neither of them are ready.

  
“Oh god, James!” John turns blinking away tears, the hint of a wet track tracing down a cheek in the dim light. Don’t mollycoddle me. I want to. And we can… here… Just let us try. Enough talking!”

  
“Alright.”

  
They let silence fall again, and each of them moves until they are lying side by side on top of the covers.

  
For a minute although it feels longer, stretched in the darkness, they just stay acclimatising, neither of them daring to make the first move.

  
It’s John who finally turns, the fingers of a gentle hand exploring James’s chest, first, finding nipples, teasing with little pinches. Causing James to gasp with startled pleasure.  
The intrepid hand quickly moves down, forging a path down the insides of arms, nails scratching biceps that are still firm, the inside of wrists, eliciting more gasps, and a gentle hum from James.

  
A memory rises up in him of almost the same scenario, both of them squeezed into a cot in the still, shimmering afternoon heat of Afghanistan. A rare quiet moment of solitude for the pair. Jame’s now weakened left arm holding the compact form of John from slipping off the narrow bunk. They’re not naked here, but John’s hand still finds ways of exciting nerve endings through the fabric of James’s uniform teeshirt. The remembrance is vivid and feels real, solid; long kept by James as a shining jewel in his recollections, something he had considered would never be revisited in reality. And he is thankful for a moment to the universe that brought them back together, until he’s brought slamming back into the present by the touch of a warm hand around his cock.


	2. Chapter 2

James focuses on the pressure of John’s touch; tight and desperate, grasping and pulling in uneven strokes. And the smell: arousal and sweat, mixed with hints of aftershave. John’s favourite and a treasured present from Sherlock; only the deep woody notes left identifiable now, but so innately his John, _their_  John, that James feels his heart skip a little. He becomes aware the hand is moving away down to cup his testicles, skirting down his inner thigh, nails again catching on the skin, but so gently. Soon the hand is replaced by the heat of expelled breath, as John leans down and darts his tongue across the head of James’s engorged penis.

James grits his teeth, the warm wet rasp of flesh on flesh working round in a swirl spreading a shiver up his spine from the base of his coccyx. Then John’s mouth is around his cock in a gripping o, holding it in place and then up and down, in and out forcing James to grip onto the bed-sheets with his good hand. John stops and presses what he has taken of James’s penis against his cheek with his tongue, taking the lull to adjust the angle of his own body making his job easier and more comfortable. Once he’s settled he starts again with earnest, teasing and licking James until his former commander is uttering a string of barely coherent murmurs, praises to John and to whatever force in the universe brought them back together.

* * *

 

It isn't long before John can feel James starting to stiffen a little underneath him, the telltale sign he's about to cum, so he pulls back a little to complete a few deep licks of the head of his penis and times it perfectly so that on the third he's tasting pure semen and feels his mouth filling with the sweet salty warm liquid. He lets it collect a little pooling it out into his cheeks before swallowing. The last few pulses ribbon into his throat, then James pulls away as he starts to feel over-sensitised.

"Fuck..." It's said in awe, like a perfect prayer. "You are... has anyone ever told you..." James trails off his breath still hard to catch after exertion, and shimmies himself to a sitting position hoping to regain composure.

John lets him go and creeps back up to snuggle into James side. He closes his eyes content, the sympathetic hormones still buzzing around his own body and with his own erection hard pressed against James' leg.

"Yes." John didn't even mean to answer, he meant to just be in the moment, but he hears the word fall from his lips sharp, a chip of flint into the darkness, and with it, against the steel of his own heart it sparks. He feels the heat burn up inside him, sudden and hot, angry and pained, and his happy glow dies, replaced by so much grief and rage it's spilling over and he can feel himself gripping onto James desperate for his partner to rescue him.

And it comes, the rescue, with a kiss on forehead, and it breaks some dam walled up inside him and he cries, for what feels like forever, his erection withering with his sobbing, whilst James holds him so tight, and yet with such gentle care containing more of the reverence he evidently places in John. And soon they are both asleep, somewhat satiated and somewhat broken, but at the least together.


End file.
